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Authors: Michelle Marcos
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you can just march in anytime you like?”
“When necessary.”
“What if I’m not dressed?”
A wicked smile cut across his face. “So much the better.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or slap it. “I’ll not have it. This arrangement is not only an extreme affront to propriety, it will assuredly ruin my reputation. Whatever will people think?”
“They can think what they like. I’m no’ after protecting yer good name. I’m after protecting yer hide.”
“Mr. Slayter, this is completely out of the question. You will sleep in the servants’ quarters, and you will come when I send for you.”
He crossed his arms at his chest, forming an impenetrable wall. “Miss Marsh, perhaps yer predicament hasn’t yet sunk in. Someone has threatened to kill ye. And where I come from, such threats are never made lightly. These are troubled times, and those who mean ye harm may avail themselves upon ye at any moment. Yer father is taking no chances with yer safety, and he’s entrusted it to me. And will ye or nill ye, I will be master of my charge.”
He wore the authority like his own skin. But she was not about to be bullied by a servant.
“Mr. Slayter, I do not take kindly to being insulted, nor do I care for being dominated like a colonial slave. You may have a duty to protect me, but I will not allow you to be my keeper.” She sidled past him and through her bedroom door.
“Where are ye going?”
“To have Father flay some of your arrogant skin off.”
ELEVEN
It felt as if the weight of the world were crushing him slowly.
Earlington sank into a chair by the open window, allowing the chill morning breeze to cool his fevered head. The world seemed so peaceful from the prospect of this window. The high wind blew a cloud across the sky, and the emerging sun made the rich green grass glow resplendently. Far off in the meadow, a scattering of sheep lazed, their gentle bleating the only sound for miles. This was a beautiful country, simple and natural.
And some people would never be happy unless soldiers’ bodies bled the ground red.
He took a long draft from the glass of brandy in his hand. Drink was never a consolation for him, so he did it sparingly. But today, with the entire world set against him—and now his daughter, too—perhaps a drink would dispel the anxiety and help him think clearly.
“It’s not doon there.”
Earlington turned toward the voice and blinked. It came from the housekeeper, a thin woman with a thick shock of copper-colored hair.
“Pardon?”
“Whatever ’tis ye’re looking for. Ye won’t find it at the bottom of that glass.”
Earlington ground his teeth. He knew that. But to be
upbraided by a servant was beyond intolerable. In England, no domestic would ever speak unless spoken to first. Nevertheless, in all the time he’d been here, it was probably the first time he had ever heard this woman speak at all.
The housekeeper was now oblivious to him, busying herself with clearing away the teacups upon a tray. What was her name?
“I don’t usually drink—” Mrs. Walker? Mrs. Talker?
“Aye, that ye don’t. All the more reason not to start noo.”
Earlington suppressed his irritation at the woman’s familiar manner, because despite the breach of propriety, what she had said was true.
He set down his glass upon the table beside his chair. “You’re right, of course. Thank you.”
She came over to pick it up. “Anyone can see ye’re as tense as the skin on an Irish bodhrán. Another glass o’ that and ye’d probably be making as much noise as that awful instrument.”
He smiled. “I won’t be having any more. Thank you for protecting my good name.” He sank back into the chair and covered his eyes with one hand. Another breeze wafted in, gently cooling the skin on his face.
A few moments passed. Sensing no movement, he opened his eyes. The housekeeper was still standing beside his chair, the tray resting on her hip, watching
“When necessary.”
“What if I’m not dressed?”
A wicked smile cut across his face. “So much the better.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or slap it. “I’ll not have it. This arrangement is not only an extreme affront to propriety, it will assuredly ruin my reputation. Whatever will people think?”
“They can think what they like. I’m no’ after protecting yer good name. I’m after protecting yer hide.”
“Mr. Slayter, this is completely out of the question. You will sleep in the servants’ quarters, and you will come when I send for you.”
He crossed his arms at his chest, forming an impenetrable wall. “Miss Marsh, perhaps yer predicament hasn’t yet sunk in. Someone has threatened to kill ye. And where I come from, such threats are never made lightly. These are troubled times, and those who mean ye harm may avail themselves upon ye at any moment. Yer father is taking no chances with yer safety, and he’s entrusted it to me. And will ye or nill ye, I will be master of my charge.”
He wore the authority like his own skin. But she was not about to be bullied by a servant.
“Mr. Slayter, I do not take kindly to being insulted, nor do I care for being dominated like a colonial slave. You may have a duty to protect me, but I will not allow you to be my keeper.” She sidled past him and through her bedroom door.
“Where are ye going?”
“To have Father flay some of your arrogant skin off.”
ELEVEN
It felt as if the weight of the world were crushing him slowly.
Earlington sank into a chair by the open window, allowing the chill morning breeze to cool his fevered head. The world seemed so peaceful from the prospect of this window. The high wind blew a cloud across the sky, and the emerging sun made the rich green grass glow resplendently. Far off in the meadow, a scattering of sheep lazed, their gentle bleating the only sound for miles. This was a beautiful country, simple and natural.
And some people would never be happy unless soldiers’ bodies bled the ground red.
He took a long draft from the glass of brandy in his hand. Drink was never a consolation for him, so he did it sparingly. But today, with the entire world set against him—and now his daughter, too—perhaps a drink would dispel the anxiety and help him think clearly.
“It’s not doon there.”
Earlington turned toward the voice and blinked. It came from the housekeeper, a thin woman with a thick shock of copper-colored hair.
“Pardon?”
“Whatever ’tis ye’re looking for. Ye won’t find it at the bottom of that glass.”
Earlington ground his teeth. He knew that. But to be
upbraided by a servant was beyond intolerable. In England, no domestic would ever speak unless spoken to first. Nevertheless, in all the time he’d been here, it was probably the first time he had ever heard this woman speak at all.
The housekeeper was now oblivious to him, busying herself with clearing away the teacups upon a tray. What was her name?
“I don’t usually drink—” Mrs. Walker? Mrs. Talker?
“Aye, that ye don’t. All the more reason not to start noo.”
Earlington suppressed his irritation at the woman’s familiar manner, because despite the breach of propriety, what she had said was true.
He set down his glass upon the table beside his chair. “You’re right, of course. Thank you.”
She came over to pick it up. “Anyone can see ye’re as tense as the skin on an Irish bodhrán. Another glass o’ that and ye’d probably be making as much noise as that awful instrument.”
He smiled. “I won’t be having any more. Thank you for protecting my good name.” He sank back into the chair and covered his eyes with one hand. Another breeze wafted in, gently cooling the skin on his face.
A few moments passed. Sensing no movement, he opened his eyes. The housekeeper was still standing beside his chair, the tray resting on her hip, watching
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